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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Tints
Hues
Hue
Brightly
Glow
Woe
Bliss

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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.
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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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